I’m a one–man band, when the crowds are tough, a one–man marching band. I’ve had more coins thrown at me by the afternoon cathedral drunks than dropped into my hat. I’m an unloved one–man band.
The bass-drum’s my Achilles’ heel. I’m old school, I don’t think it’s right to perform to backing tapes like seems to be the norm nowadays, but can I keep a beat? Can I fiddle!
I practice at home, foot, pedal, foot, pedal, ’til the neighbours bang on the walls. They’re better percussionists than me, I should rope them into the act.
The precinct on a Saturday, rain curtaining off the eaves. A couple of Community Support officers look over as they pass, but they don’t seem too interested. Them and everyone else.
Can’t wait to go home today, before I mould. My harmonica suddenly makes the most godawful squawk when I blow. I blow harder.